


Compensatory Seasonal Succulents

by VulcanMollusk



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, Family Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 09:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17098259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulcanMollusk/pseuds/VulcanMollusk
Summary: Even after 20 years of marriage, Christmas celebrations don't always go exactly as imagined. Post-Mission. Sheer Christmas fluff. Written with original Spock/Bones in mind but can apply to the new versions as well.





	Compensatory Seasonal Succulents

The crackle of a freshly stocked fireplace tickled Spock’s left ear. Silver moon light filtered in through tall windows, while snowflakes swirled serenely past. Stretching languidly, he sank deeper into the heated feather bed spread across the den’s carpeted floor, as a plush comforter settled around him. 

Abruptly, he startled, jolting awake. 

Leonard was still lying beside him, warm and solid and sleeping peacefully. Poking his head up, Spock listened warily, eyes widening as the rustling comforter slid from his shoulders.

Leonard and he had arrived at their cabin four days prior and had immediately undertaken the tasks Leonard deemed necessary to celebrate the Winter Solstice: acquiring copious foodstuffs, decorating the grounds and interior, readying bedrooms for their guests, and selecting appropriate gifts to arrange under the brightly out-fitted conifer that blinked placidly beside the hosiery covered fireplace. 

They were anticipating the arrival of the doctor’s daughter, Joanna, in 2.8 days, and of their friends over the following three days, culminating with a traditional dinner on the Eve of the Solstice.

As they had been alone the previous evening and had not since been awakened with requests for admittance to their domicile, he could only conclude that Joanna had arrived early. That hypothesis garnered support from the faint clattering of cookware coming from the kitchen.

Panic rising, he clutched the thick plaid flannel fabric around him. 

In the weeks before their leave they had both been exceedingly busy, Spock training science cadets, and Leonard developing the Xeno-medicine curriculum. They had had little time for each other then, and their amorous activities since the semester’s end had been enthusiastic and varied. Spock’s stomach sank as he spied his clothing folded neatly on the large sectional couch 7.8 meters across the room. 

Running several quick calculations, he came to no sound plan to resolve his most immediate difficulty. 

He could retain the blanket bundled around himself, rush to seize his own clothing, and make way with all due haste to the nearest washroom to appropriately attire himself. That, however, would leave Leonard wholly devoid of bodily covering, an entirely unacceptable affront to visit upon his bond mate. 

He could, conversely, properly attend to his mate and then execute a similar escape plan. Since he had undoubtedly already gravely offended Joanna with his shocking and shameless state of utter undress, this option had the advantage of not implicating his bond mate in a similar transgression. 

Steadying his breathing and listening closely to the hum of activity in the kitchen, he computed the timing of his endeavor to the nearest millisecond, then slid from beneath the comforter, bundling it around Leonard before bolting towards the over-stuffed grey couch, grabbing his attire and scuttling towards the washroom while clutching an ungainly sweater awkwardly about his nether person. 

Miraculously arriving unseen, he frantically bolted the door behind him and exhaled roughly as he adjusted the controls of the steam shower, his shaking hands reaching for the shampoo as he stepped under the rainfall spray. Legs still trembling, he reviewed his disgraceful behavior. 

They had both been quite fatigued when they arrived at their cabin, though his bond mate had insisted on launching right into their holiday preparations, as he wished to make this “Jo’s best Christmas ever.”

In retrospect, Spock could have insisted that they rest first; he could have undertaken much needed meditation. Perhaps, if he had spent more time on restorative measures, and less time listening to the familiar musical tales of corpulent gift bearers pursuing ill-advised descents down chimneys and nasally disfigured reindeer shortsightedly mocked by their eventually admiring peers – a story that had always delighted his mother – he would not have behaved in such a scandalous fashion.

Perhaps, he admitted, reaching for the snowman shaped soap dispenser and the sleigh shaped sponge – perhaps if he had consumed fewer cane shaped striped confections, he might have been more reticent in indulging Leonard’s fantasies, or at least more insistent that they retreat to an appropriately private -and locked – bedroom after engaging in their amorous activities. 

Perhaps, he admitted, rinsing the soap from his long limbs, perhaps if he been more reserved in his own ardor, he might have heard something that could have prevented this shameful event. 

He was, after all, he chastised himself, shutting off the water and reaching for a large heated towel, well acquainted with a physician’s variable schedule. Like her father, Joanna was a dedicated, accomplished healer, exceptionally skilled and widely respected by her colleagues at Starfleet Medical. That she would arrive early was exceedingly unlikely. Still, had he been more mindful of that possibility, he could have spared his mate’s child the flagrant and unseemly spectacle that had undoubtedly unsettled her greatly, perhaps even already ruining the perfect holiday that her father had worked so hard to provide. 

Exhaling quietly, he pulled on the soft grey trousers that Leonard had gifted him with two years prior, sliding his fingers absently along the smooth fabric, which had grown more pleasing to the touch with each cleaning. Reaching for his sweater, he mulled his options.

On Vulcan, such an obscene display of public nudity would mark a grave moral and legal infraction, and demand swift remediation involving a series of fines, educational interventions, and acts of restitution. 

The Uniform Fine Standards Bureau would calculate the appropriate monetary penalty using a precise numerical formula: square centimeters of exposed integument times duration of exposure and number of offended observers, all multiplied by the Co-efficient of Immodesty as expressed in traditional Vulcan D’kran, a unit readily convertible into federation credits according to inter-planetary exchange rates. 

An automated instructional course would also be mandated, including an extensive review of Vulcan textile production and costuming practices, and requiring passage of a 187-question exam. 

Recompense would also be offered to the damaged parties according to a three-tier schedule: Minor offenses required the provision of small consumables: a selection of teas, seasonal legumes, or fruits was typical. Intermediate infractions demanded a basket of rarer spices and the provision of incense rods to aid in the meditation necessary to restore the equanimity of the offended parties. Extreme cases typically involved the offering of the rare fan’tava plant. Vulcan’s only flowering succulent, it bloomed weekly in ample sunlight, providing prized leaves for the flavoring of teas, the garnishing of evening meals, the filling of popular pastries, and – on singular occasions – for direct, raw consumption. 

Shivering slightly, Spock pulled on the dark purple sweater Joanna had made for him a decade before; thick and densely cabled, its intricate texture had always intrigued him, and he frequently found himself inexplicably running his hands over its soft contours as he read scientific articles with his evening tea. 

Glancing over his attire, he wondered if he should change into stiffer, more formal robes, and retrieve his uniform boots from the upstairs closet. The penchant his bond mate and step daughter had for indulging his most unfortunate tactile predilections was plainly at odds with his ability to retain his countenance as a respectable Vulcan citizen. 

Shaking his head with a frown, he instead pulled on the well-worn sheepskin slippers that they had conspired to have produced for him seven Solstices ago. Proper Vulcans did not bedeck themselves with such luxurious foot ware, of course. Thickly cushioned and densely lined with silken llama wool, they had been custom made to the precise, holographic measurements of his feet and ankles. 

Exceptionally warm, they were also patently extravagant, and prompted somewhat embarrassing McCoy mirth whenever either of them observed him absent mindedly flexing and extending his metatarsal digits into their deep nap. Positively voluptuous in their interior texture, they were also an occasional threat to induce unseemly drowsing in his recliner beside the fireplace as he read through his late afternoon correspondence. 

Still, they were a gift, and custom made, and certainly non-returnable. They could also not in any way be blamed for his current predicament, nor for his inability to ascertain how to remediate his situation. 

Stepping towards the kitchen, he reviewed his options. He could offer monetary recompense for his shocking, flagrant immodesty, but that seemed grossly inadequate; she was his mate’s deeply beloved child. Incense would prove futile; McCoys of his acquaintance were uniformly much too high strung to meditate. He had shared Vulcan teas with her on numerous occasions, but that was a tier one measure, in no means adequate to the severity of the offense in question. A fan’tava plant would be a starting point to adequate recompense but would be difficult to obtain on such short notice. Moreover, while earth hosted approximately 1,600 species of succulents, none held analogous cultural significance, and he doubted he could accurately identify which native variety might prove functionally equivalent. 

Decidedly not steeling himself, he steadied his breathing and entered the kitchen, where Joanna was bent over the wide counter island, her favored snowman covered mixing bowl in hand. 

She glanced up as he entered, flashing a bright smile framed by a tumble of long, wavy auburn hair, and motioning towards the table. “Hey,” she said cheerfully, reaching for a large wooden stirring spoon to her left. “I made you k’raa’yla. It’s still steaming.”

Startled, Spock blinked, confusion rising as he surveyed the well-stocked surface. 

He moved towards the warming plate, inhaling a familiar scent. An admixture of six varieties of high protein long grains, the traditional Vulcan breakfast dish was also – in the form Johanna regularly prepared for him – peppered with fresh berries and nuts and sprinkled with cinnamon and brown sugar. Its aroma was illogically reminiscent both of his mother’s cooking and of the frequent visits home that Johanna had always made throughout her medical training, during which they had often debated the latest innovations in biotechnology while Leonard loudly decried the machine take-over of medicine. 

Spock closed his eyes, working to focus as his stomach grumbled. 

Vulcans did not have favorite foods, of course; nor were they prone to distracting hunger under ordinary circumstances. Still, Leonard and he had skipped the previous evening’s meal, despite their carnal activities requiring even more energy than had decorating the porch earlier that afternoon, and he could acknowledge the possibility that he was currently experiencing a caloric deficit. 

“I made a pot of jan’ttrew tea, too,” she added, pouring the batter she held into another large bowl. 

“One of my friends picked it up for me during his last rotation on Star Base 64. I told him it was one of your favorites,” she added, eyes sparkling. 

One eyebrow lifted fractionally; they had had the “favorites” discussion approximately 184 times since the first time she had broached the question, at the age of eleven; she remained obdurate. 

“Dig in,” she added breezily, reaching for a bowl of blueberries. “I’m making dad pancakes.”

Re-centering his attention, Spock stiffened, folding his hands neatly behind his back.

“First, I must express my deepest regrets for my behavior this morning. It was entirely unacceptable and I will undertake whatever measures you deem necessary to restore suitable equilibrium to our social interactions.“

“What?” she asked, poking through a nearby cabinet and plainly distracted by her culinary endeavors. 

Exhaling somewhat awkwardly, he began again. “I wish to apologize for the grossly unseemly spectacle to which you were exposed in the den this morning.“

“You mean the tree?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as she reached for a dishtowel. “I saw it from the window when I pulled up this morning and couldn’t wait to take a closer look. I know dad likes the multi-colored lights, but the clear ones were always my favorites. I’m glad you guys chose them this year.”

“Negative,” Spock said quietly. “I was referring not to the seasonal conifer’s somewhat over-abundance of accouterment, but to my grossly unacceptable lack thereof.”

Joanna paused, tilting her head while she parsed the stilted syntax. She had always had a flair for languages and was conversant in medical Vulcan. Speaking Spock was something else entirely, and it sometimes took her a few minutes to re-acclimate. 

“You had no reason to suspect the display that awaited you,” he continued, “and you were no doubt shocked and appalled when you confronted the wholly undignified and disgraceful state of my attire.“

“Attire?” she repeated, nonplussed. “You and dad were asleep by the fireplace.”

“We were arrayed in a most scandalous fashion which did not attend to your health or safety, and which gave a shameful lack of consideration to your needs and sensibilities,” he stated, shaking his head.

“My health and safety?” she pronounced slowly, her expression puzzled. 

“Your psychological well-being,” Spock filled in quietly. 

Joanna stared blankly for a moment, bewildered frown turning to bemused grin as she returned to mixing her pancake batter. “Is that what’s bothering you?” she asked. “All I saw was-“

“I am aware of what you were so carelessly and irresponsibly exposed to,” he interrupted quickly, the tips of his ears flushing as his hands clenched and unclenched behind his back. 

“I’m a Starfleet trauma surgeon,” she reminded him, trying not to giggle as she placed the bowl on the counter and moved back towards the pantry. “Do you really think the sight of a naked Vulcan sleeping peacefully under a Christmas tree is going to scar me for life?”

Spock’s posture stiffened, his eyes locked on the floor. “The untoward effects could be delayed,” he said softly. “The possibility of long term psychological damage cannot be dismissed so easily.”

“Well, then, you’d better not look on the table,” she said, motioning to the wide screen Holo-Padd as she rooted through the pantry.

Spock lifted the device hesitantly, watching as a varied set of holo-photos cycled across the screen: the tall toy soldiers flanking the outside double doorway, the large replica candy cane confections hanging from the porch rafters, the decorated conifer seen from the cabin’s exterior, the sunrise stirring from behind the eastward mountains, icicles clinging to steeply pitched roof peaks and … he inhaled sharply. 

“Told you,” she said, pulling a griddle from the top shelf.

Spock’s eyes widened, stomach flip flopping as he paused the next image in the que. 

Bathed in a silver dawn glow, snowflakes flitted past the den’s tall windows as the flickering fireplace cast shadows across the conifer’s twinkling white lights. Regrettably thus illuminated was the entire length of his bare posterior anatomy, from the base of his cerebellum to the tips of his metatarsal joints, as he slept heedlessly, curled protectively around his bond mate.

“These are-” he stammered, pacing speechless through the next few images as antique, untranslatable Vulcan terms for pre-reformation pornography came to mind. 

“They’re great, right?” Joanna said, pouring a round dollop of thick batter onto the sizzling griddle. “It’s hard to get just the right color saturation when you’re trying to capture lights on a Christmas tree.”

“These-” he muttered, hands fumbling with the Padd as he paused again. Another image filled the wide screen, this one providing a sharper focus on the colorful gift-retaining hosiery hanging from the fire place, and an even more prominent view of the rounded gluteal muscles which conspicuously filled the foreground, pale ivory-green globes gleaming against the flocked conifer with its panoply of white lights. 

“I already sent them to Jim,” Joanna added, shaping and flipping her culinary handiworks. “You know how he likes to make those Christmas collages for everyone.” 

“Sent what to Jim?” Leonard asked, abruptly entering the kitchen with a widening grin. “Thought I smelled pancakes,” he added, moving towards the cook top and beaming as he kissed his daughter. 

“Those Holo-pictures,” she said, nodding to the Padd Spock had unceremoniously dropped on the table.

“Hey,” Leonard said, picking it up and scanning it closely. “Tree looks great. This is going to be the best Christmas ever.” 

Most emphatically not, Spock thought plaintively, not at all cringing as laughter erupted. 

“Well,” Leonard announced, grinning even more broadly, “we know what picture’s going in the center of Jim’s Christmas collages this year.”

“That would be entirely inappropriate,” Spock insisted, suppressing a shudder. 

“Like that would ever stop him,” Joanna noted, flipping two more of her blueberry masterpieces. 

“That would be unconscionable,” Spock protested weakly. She was correct, of course. The vulgar and obscene images might already have been shared among their friends. 

“I can see the caption now,” Leonard announced grandly as he filled his coffee mug, “the twin moons of Vulcan rising to greet the Christmas season.” 

“Vulcan has no moons,” Spock noted, his expression earnest. “Nor does it have a seasonal solstice in any way analogous to earth’s.”

“Maybe Jim will submit his collage to be published in one of those Starfleet calendars this year,” Joanna said, rustling through a nearby cabinet. 

Spock blanched; 9.83 years before, during a wedding hosted on Betazed, the senior crew of the Enterprise had participated in a ritual intended to induce harmony among the marital parties. Captain Kirk had offered Spock the chance to remain on the ship, citing his Vulcan sensibilities. The moonlight rite, however, occurring on a tropical planet amid steaming hot springs, offered no threat to his health. As such, Spock had agreed to partake in the interests of inter-planetary goodwill and cultural exchange. 

Moonlight on Betazed, however, with its 94 orbiting celestial bodies reflecting the rays of its double sun, was brighter than that on many similarly sized planets. Alas, after the event, shamefully indecent holo-photos emerged of him standing as the ritual required, face raised to the sky, the crystal-clear waterfall cascading down over him the only bodily covering the ritual permitted.

The grotesquely revealing images, appearing in the “Bodacious Buns on Betazed” crew calendar that Starfleet had published to commemorate the successful mission – and sold for charitable purposes - had led him to submit a series of indignant protests to the admiralty’s Chief Propriety Under-Secretary. 

In response, Starfleet’s Office of Public Affairs had sent him two free calendars and a wholly improper gift certificate for a week’s stay on Risa for him and his “lucky mate.”

“That would be totally unacceptable,” Spock murmured, shaking his head

“You know how much money those things make?” Joanna pointed out, loading a stack of pancakes onto a fancifully decorated snowman plate. “They made enough credits on that one you were in to stabilize the entire hydro-agricultural system on Argus 4 after the meteor strike.”

“I would in no way refuse to assist in the easing of such a calamity,” Spock objected primly. “I would simply insist upon doing so in a discrete and dignified fashion.”

“I don’t get it, anyway,” Leonard said, accepting the pancakes as he motioned with his chin towards Joanna’s Padd. “Women lined up ten deep at kiosks to buy a centerfold of that pasty keister.” 

“Not just women,” Joanna corrected him, laughing as she handed Leonard a plate of butter. “Three of my male classmates had those calendars up in their lockers that year.”

“You were subjected to multiple viewings of that – “Spock stammered, stuttering out a Vulcan term that sounded unmistakably like a curse. 

Joanna shook her head, filling her own plate and then handing Leonard a bottle of maple syrup. “I wasn’t subjected to anything. I bought twelve of them myself to give as gifts. They were for charity. I even sent mom one.” 

“You mother?” Spock gasped, nonplussed. 

Ordinarily, he held Joanna in the very highest regard for her great intelligence, her vast compassion, her admirable skill and dedication, for all the myriad ways in which she was so very much like Leonard. Still, if she thought such shocking displays of public nudity acceptable – in the interests of charity - what else would she permit were the cause deemed sufficient – Torture? Genocide? Cannibalism? 

“I wouldn’t say it’s a pasty keister, either,” she added, casually glancing over the scrolling photos again before setting her own plate down on the table and seating herself beside Leonard. 

“Trust me, I’m a doctor,” Leonard insisted, shaking his head as he poured the heated syrup. “I’ve seen thousands of them. That one’s nothing special.” 

“I’ll have to offer a second opinion,” Joanna objected, before Spock could interrupt. “My co-workers would pay good credits for those holo-pics.”

“You’re gonna make him vain,” Leonard grumbled, adding butter to his pancakes. 

“Vanity is not a typical Vulcan failure,” Spock stated, brows furrowing.

“It’s not vanity,” Joanna corrected. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” 

“Flaunting would in no way be tolerated on Vulcan,” Spock sputtered, eyes widening. 

“The evidence suggests otherwise, moon boy” Leonard said, motioning towards the images still scrolling serenely across the wide Holo-Padd. 

“He thinks they’re going to scar me for life,” Joanna noted, pouring her tea. 

“As the progeny of my bond mate you are entitled to my full protection under Vulcan law and tradition,“ Spock noted gravely. “The statues governing public nudity have been well established for centuries and are enforced most rigorously.”

“Public nudity?” Joanna said, chuckling. “You were in the den. It’s not like you were under the Christmas tree in Starfleet Medical’s Lobby.”

“I’m sure it’s been done there,” Leonard muttered. “You know how those interns get.”

“You are not addressing this matter with appropriate seriousness,” Spock admonished. “Perhaps if I had required more restraint in the exercise of our marital relations we might have avoided this perversion.”

“Perversion?” Leonard snorted. “I’ll have you know my great, great grandma was a respectable Baptist.”

“Marital relations?” Johanna giggled, mimicking his severe tone.

“To expose my bond mate’s child so carelessly to such… thr’kek…” Spock insisted, shaking his head in disgust, “is unconscionable.” 

“I’m 32 years old,” Joanna interjected, trying to maintain a straight face. 

“A doctor, too,” Leonard noted proudly. “Seen thousands of them.” 

“I’ll get it,” he added, rising as the doorbell rang. “I’m expecting something special for you,” he announced, smiling excitedly at Joanna as he bounced out of the room. “No peeking.” 

“He still spoils me,” Joanna said, adding tea to Spock’s cup as well, while motioning again for him to sit.

“He cherishes you,” Spock said softly, reluctantly seating himself across from her. 

“That makes my transgression exceptionally egregious,” he added, eyes downcast. “I confess I am at a loss to compute adequate restitution. On Vulcan, the traditional legal methods for seeking absolution would include the provision of staple consumables along with a flowering succulent and…“ 

Joanna erupted into laughter as she nearly spilled her tea. 

Spock visibly deflated. “I surmise, however, that those measures would be inadequate in this case.”

Joanna shook her head, smiling fondly at him. “You know we were teasing you, right?”

Spock glanced up quizzically. 

“I didn’t send those pictures to Jim,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’d never do that. I’ll even delete them all if you want,” she added. “But there’s no reason to.”

“This is your home,” Spock insisted, lowering his head. “You should expect a certain level of decorum and respect for your sensibilities.”

“This is our home,” she reminded him, tapping his wrist lightly until he looked up. “And as for my sensibilities, you know what I really saw when I walked into the den?” she asked, reaching for her Padd. 

Spock glanced away, face flushing slightly. 

Joanna sighed. “Look,” she insisted, freezing one of the photos and enlarging its top right sector.

“You know my parents divorced when I was four,” she said. “Christmases were the worst. Dad would be gone and mom would be criticizing him, or dad would visit and they’d both try to out-do each other with all the gifts they gave me.”

Spock frowned thoughtfully, considering. “I was led to understand that human children favored the provision of numerous gifts during the winter Solstice?” 

“Not when you’re getting them because your parents are trying to get you to take sides,” she said softly. “Then it’s kind of like you don’t even matter, they’re so busy fighting with each other.”

“You are the singular center of their lives, ko-fu,” Spock protested sharply, blushing again as the usually unspoken endearment slipped from his lips. 

Joanna smiled widely, brushing her thumb lightly over his wrist.

“I understand that now,” she replied, “it just didn’t feel like that at the time.” 

“I believe I comprehend,” he said quietly. “I too was the focal point of some parental discord. It can be most unsettling.” 

“Well,” she said. “That’s over. Now,” she added, pushing the Padd towards him, “Christmas looks more like this.”

Spock glanced up warily, studying the image she had selected. While his own unspeakable exposure was mortifying, his broader bodily constitution was most fortuitously arrayed around Leonard, sheltering his bond mate’s similarly nude form from view and sparing him the same gross indignity. 

Cropped as it was, the image revealed Leonard’s face only, bathed in soft light, a blissful smile settled across his features as he slept peacefully in Spock’s embrace. 

“Vulcans endeavor to please their mates in all things,” he all but whispered. “Including… their preferred celebrations of… the impending seasonal solstice,” he added sheepishly.

“So that’s what they call it on Vulcan, huh? Celebrating the seasonal solstice?” she prodded, her eyes dancing as Spock’s blush deepened. 

He inhaled awkwardly. Denying visual evidence was not logical. 

“That’s what I come home to, now,” she continued. “My dad with a Vulcan bond mate who listens to Christmas carols and watches sappy holo-videos and decorates porches with him just to make him happy, and who ….celebrates the impending solstice….. with him under a lighted Christmas tree just to indulge his fantasies of the perfect holiday.”

“You were … not offended by my…?” he asked hesitantly, gaze flickering away from the images again.

“I was not,” she confirmed, teasing with her seriousness.

Spock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yet, when you entered the den, you moved immediately to conceal my…exposed integument… with the provision of a densely feather-packed expanse of flannel fabric.”

Joanna blinked, parsing what he said. “The comforter?” she asked. “I was afraid you’d get cold. That’s the warmest – expanse of down filled flannel fabric – that we have.” 

“If he was a gentleman,” she added sternly, glancing up as Leonard re-entered the kitchen and returned to the table, “my father would’ve had a blanket ready for you after you two… celebrated the impending solstice,“ she finished, regaining her familiarity with speaking Spock.

“That’s a heated down featherbed,” Leonard protested, helping himself to two more pancakes.

“The windows were frosted, it was below freezing outside,” Johanna ticked off. “If I hadn’t raised the thermostat and re-kindled the fire, you could’ve ended up with a frost-bitten Vulcan on your hands.” 

“He was fine,” Leonard scoffed, pausing another image scrolling across the Holo-Padd and motioning at it with his chin as he chewed. “Green as grapes.” 

“Doctors,” Spock interrupted, eyes widening at the wholly inappropriate and gravely obscene display of the evidently post-coital coloration shading his posterior anatomy. 

“You know full well that a naked Vulcan of his height and mass loses 1.69 V-joules of heat per square centimeter of exposed skin per minute,“ she retorted, digging back into her own plate, “and that’s not factoring in the maximally relaxed capillary response associated with orgasmic release.”

“Doctors,” Spock sputtered, a deepening frown extending across his dismayed features. 

“That’s only in atmospheric pressures 456 Kpa above sea level,” Leonard insisted. “We’re not on Mount Everest, here.” 

“And you know how much heat they lose through their feet,” Joanna noted authoritatively, shaking her head. “You should’ve made him keep his slippers on.”

“Doctors,” Spock interjected haplessly.

“Just his slippers?” Leonard snorted. “Now that would be a picture.”

“And covered him with the comforter,” she added, pointing her fork in her father’s direction. 

“I prefer an unobstructed view,” Leonard said, shrugging casually as he sipped his coffee. 

“I thought you said he was pasty?” she teased. 

“And doughy, the way you’re fattening him up,” Leonard said, motioning towards the array of supplies covering the counter near the double oven. “I see what you’re planning to make next. You know how many calories those fancy hobgoblin pastries you make for him have?”

“You know he needs more energy to maintain his core body temperature when the atmosphere gets this dry,” she admonished. “Speaking of which, have you seen the new Therma-Tex blankets the Exo-planetary Expeditionary units are using?” she asked, pouring herself more tea. 

Leonard nodded, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Read they cut down dermal damage 27% when used in potentially hypothermic conditions.”

Joanna grabbed her Padd, calling up a research article. “I know one of the team members whose been developing them. If I can get a prototype, you could keep that under the Christmas tree for whenever you – you know – celebrate the Solstice.”

Spock inhaled sharply, suppressing a shudder.

Leonard scooted across the bench closer to her, reviewing the article’s introduction. “Hey, is that Thomas Franklin from the Biosciences division?” he asked, as it scrawled across the screen. 

“Yeah,” she agreed, “he just won the Hopkins award. Have you read his latest paper on comparative Xeno-anatomy across class G planets?“

Exhaling quietly, Spock settled back in his seat, relieved beyond measure that his personal anatomy was no longer the focus of the discussion. Lifting the lid from his warming plate, he inhaled the scent of his breakfast as he reached for his fork. 

He ate quietly, listening to their typically animated discussion, and scarcely raising an eyebrow when Johanna reached over to re-warm his tea and sprinkle a spoonful more cinnamon and brown sugar onto his meal, reminding him that he needed additional sucrose in temperatures below 28 degrees. 

In 2.6 minutes, the free-flowing conversation shifted again, drawing him back into a lengthy if somewhat more restrained discussion of impending visitors and family traditions and an imminent trip to the local commissary. Lists were formulated as the kitchen was cleaned and all cooking implements set back in order. Immediately afterward, they prepared for their next round of holiday shopping, Joanna going out to retrieve the air car while Leonard gathered supplies for their excursion. 

Spock stood obediently, refraining from sighing as a wool hat, gloves and scarf were added to the more than adequately insulated dark green coat he wore. Warming hypos and anti-hypothermic pills were stuffed into his pockets, and a thermos of scalding tea shoved into his hands by his gruff bond mate, who quickly herded him the 6.3 meters to the waiting air car. 

More McCoy debates followed in the stores, about engineering toys for Scotty and Uhura’s twins, about pies for Jim and perfume for Christine, about skiing passes for Sulu and Chekov, about muffin flavors and cookie cutters and an enormous inflatable snow globe which seemed destined for the front yard of their domicile, as if the naturally occurring snow were not more than sufficient for a “white Christmas,” even with the admitted absence of indigenous skiing Aptenodytes forsteri in Western Montana. 

As he assisted with the toting of these acquisitions, he spotted a home delivery ordering kiosk near the cookie mix selections - where Johanna and Leonard were engaging their annual debate about which refreshments to provide for the secretive visiting gift giver and his service reindeer, and whether it was appropriate to factor the comparative cholesterol levels of various baked confections into that decision. 

This negotiation, which had proceeded since Joanna was nine years of age – with no apparent progress towards diplomatic resolution – offered him a few moments to slip away. Paging through the kiosk’s automated catalog, he completed his transaction, ordering several items to be delivered that afternoon. 

Finishing their tasks soon afterwards, they returned to the cabin, unloading the purchases they’d taken home with them and clearing space in the downstairs spare bedroom for the deliveries they anticipated over the next several hours. 

Additional decorations were spread throughout the house, baking commenced, messages and travel plans were exchanged with their impending guests, and seasonal videos played in the background. 

Leonard’s joy, scarcely visible on his craggy features, pulsed steadily across their bond, inflating Spock’s own chest with a familiar warmth as he filed the last of his paperwork for the just completed semester.

An early dinner followed, the debate over what refreshments to provide for the fabled gift giver and his mythical reindeer continuing as Joanna spooned the rich vegetable stew she’d made – liberally sprinkled with Vulcan spices – into Spock’s bowl. A heated plate was placed beside it, loaded with thick slices of freshly baked, still steaming cre’van’ta, a soft, dark bread the scent of which had filled his mother’s kitchen during numerous family dinners. 

He hesitated briefly, the aroma enthralling him as his fingers twitched slightly. The stew was a sufficient meal. The bread, however, had been made specifically for his consumption, and it was among the most amenable of foods to his palette. The patent illogic of having favorite nutritive substances, and of consuming them in quantities that exceeded one’s basic caloric requirements aside, he could admit that the provision of this traditional Vulcan staple was most welcome. 

Approximately one hour and eight minutes later, Johanna was rooting through the hall closet, pulling out a fluffy scarf and hat as Leonard retrieved her ice skates for her from the back deck. 

“You have your communicator with you, of course?” Spock asked sternly, hands clasped behind his back as he observed her preparations. 

“Why?” she asked. “I’m not on call.”

“Nevertheless,” Spock insisted. “Winter recreational activities can prove perilous.”

“I’m meeting my friends at the ski lodge right down the mountain,” she reminded him. “We’re going to watch holo-videos, gossip, make hot chocolate… we probably won’t even get on the ice.”

“All of those activities may harbor hidden dangers,” he insisted gravely. “The weather forecast for the next 24 hours indicates an 87% probability of frozen precipitation.”

“The ice rink is inside the lodge,” she reminded him. “And the rec room has two huge fireplaces,” she added as she tied up her thickly cushioned sleeping bag. “We’re hardly roughing it down there.”

“Nevertheless,” Spock replied, shaking his head. “Travel under such conditions can become extremely hazardous with little warning.” 

“It’s like five minutes from here by air car,” she replied with a smirk. 

“6.7 when conforming to advisable speed constraints,” Spock corrected quietly. “And as a physician, you are aware that time can be imperative should you require assistance. A simple transponder clipped inside your ski jacket would significantly increase the probability of you safely completing your mission.“

“Dad,” she said, motioning to Leonard as he entered the room, “your husband is being-“

“Illogical?” Leonard guessed. “Impossible?” Infuriating?” 

“A former first officer,” she grumbled, stuffing the flashlight and emergency rations pack that Spock had imperiously presented her into her travel bag. 

“Prudent,” Spock interjected. “I wish only to ensure your safety.” 

“He’s doing you-know-what again,” she said, rolling her eyes as she loaded up her skates. 

“He’s hovering, huh?” Leonard asked, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially at Johanna.

“Vulcans do not hover,” Spock huffed. “We do, however, prepare for all foreseeable hazards.“

“Right here,” she interrupted, lifting a small device from the bag that she then hefted over her shoulder. “Transponder, clipped inside my jacket, just like when I was eight years old,” she added with a dramatic sigh. “I can only imagine what my friends will say.”

Spock started, eyes widening. “I in no way wish to make you an object of derision among your peers,” he said quietly, face downcast as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Perhaps an alternative strategy of ensuring your security might be more amenable to all concerned.”

“Or, you could stop hovering,” Leonard volunteered. “Have a good time,” he added, hugging Joanna.

“I’ll be back in time to make lunch tomorrow,” she promised. “With my transponder,” she added, rolling her eyes as she waved it in Spock’s direction. 

“I do not intend to compromise your seasonal merriment,” Spock said sheepishly. “I seek only to ensure that you remain unharmed.“

“I know,” she giggled, brushing her fingers lightly across his wrist.

“And if your companions should discover my requested safety measures and express reservations?” he asked hesitantly. Images of a crest-fallen red-nosed reindeer mocked by his unaccepting peers flitted through his racing thoughts. He was plainly in need of meditation. 

“Then they can get their own Vulcan,” she shrugged as she stretched up to kiss his cheek. “You’re ours,” she added. “And just wait until you see what’s for lunch tomorrow.” 

“One of his favorites, no doubt,” Leonard grumbled. “You’re going to make him fat.”

“Probably,” she agreed, breezing out the door. 

Spock stood rooted in place, befuddled eyes staring after her as Leonard retreated to his study to respond to some last-minute correspondence before the seasonal holidays officially began. 

Meditation, Spock recalled. He desperately needed meditation. 

Ascending the stairs, he showered quickly, changed into his robe and retrieved his meditation mat. Climbing up another flight of stairs to the large loft, he spread the mat across the plush carpeted floor beside the fire place and promptly laid down upon it. That was hardly his typical meditation pose, but the day had been trying – filled with holiday crowds and blinking lights and unusual scents and constant noises and chilled places of riotous commerce – and some atypical fatigue had begun to set in. 

Stretching cautiously, he focused upon and released the unusual aches in his spine and legs. As an active member of Star Fleet, even if now in a teaching capacity, he maintained a regular exercise routine. It did not, however, include scaling somewhat unsteady ladders in twenty-degree weather to hang two-meter tall replica candy cane confections from porch overhangs. Nor was inflating and securing a ten-meter wide snow globe – complete with skiing penguins - among the events in which he regularly participated. 

Exhaling quietly, he turned his attention to the cabin rafters above him, surveying their intricate log woodwork as he watched pale moon beams flood in through the broad sky lights. 

The cabin was large, larger than he and Leonard had initially thought necessary when they purchased it nearly twenty years before. They had bought it for the location, perched nearly atop a mountain with expansive views of the ski slopes across the valley, the ski village below, and the mountains surrounding them. It was sufficiently rustic to suit Leonard’s wishes, yet close enough for them to commute easily to the Academy to fulfill their teaching and administrative obligations. It had been Leonard’s dream, and Johanna’s, and one delighted squeal from their ko’fu had them both signing the papers before she could make her first run down the rugged ski slopes that would become as much her home as the cabin itself. 

In retrospect, the purchase had been most fortuitous. Over the years, they hosted numerous holidays for the friends who had become their k’war’ma’khon, their extended family of choice. Offering a vast array of outdoor activities, their ski lodge community drew recreational visitors year-round, and their cabin frequently housed smaller gatherings as well. With four additional bedrooms and several fireplaces, it was both well suited to its climate and well-appointed for frequent guests. 

Most vitally, despite his bond mate’s occasional gruff complaints about running an impromptu bed and breakfast for their friends and families, Leonard took great joy in these frequent gatherings, particularly when they involved his beloved daughter. 

Returning his mind to Joanna, Spock inhaled deeply, attempting to settle his mind as he sorted through the day’s events. Despite her jocular assurances, he had been certain that the shocking sight of him in a state of flagrant and shameful undress had disturbed her gravely, perhaps permanently. 

While they aimed always to be discreet and dignified, however, Vulcans were not entirely inflexible. 

As he had learned during his Starfleet career, cultural mores concerning appropriate costuming or lack thereof varied widely. He had, at various times during the performance of his duties, worn furs and feathers, metal suits and silken scarves, polyethylene wrappings and mineral lacings, and even, in one particularly unsettling instance, a crawling garment comprised entirely of animated, sentient – and most distressingly tactile and… curious…plants. 

He had, moreover, endured the unfortunate Betazed incident with adequate equanimity, if only due to the enjoyment Leonard had derived from their subsequent gift-certificate inspired shore leave on Risa. 

A humanitarian mission to Sontarious 6-T had also proven successful, though its natives permitted only the bodily shielding afforded by their native paints and glitters. The treaty signing on the water world of Aratnus Prime, similarly, had saved millions of lives, a cause sufficient, he imagined grudgingly, for the diplomatically obligatory life-sized commemorative statue of his person – wearing only an elaborate shell-necklace – to stand in the city center. 

Proper Vulcans were also respectable but not prideful. It would be patronizing and disrespectful of him to doubt Joanna’s own repeated assurances that her… unfortunate encounter with… the undeniably… regrettable…. display of… his… irresponsibly nude personage… had not irreparably scarred her. 

That was his last coherent thought until he found himself face down on his meditation mat, robe peeled from his shoulders as the familiar scent of cinnamon and cucumbers surrounded him.

“Just mixed up another batch of this herbal stuff you like,” Leonard said quietly, spreading the luxuriously heated medicinal oil across Spock’s back as the Vulcan stirred sleepily. 

“Thought all that decorating out in the cold might have stiffened you up some,” he added, kneading the familiar mixture expertly into the muscles along the olive tinged spine. 

Spock turned slightly, preparing to insist that such medical ministrations were unnecessary. A deep sigh escaped his lips instead, as skilled fingers untangled the stiff musculature surrounding his scapulae. 

“Lie still,” Leonard admonished, peeling more of the robe away and working his hands knowingly along Spock’s lower back and hip joints.

Spock turned again, his next protest stuttering out as a rumbling – disgraceful - purr as Leonard’s long, deep strokes slid smoothly along his exposed flanks.

Leonard’s mind was quiet, the only sound surrounding them the doctor’s soft, contented humming.

“Adun,” Spock stammered, his mental shields dissolving as his bond mate’s emotions suffused him. “You are fatigued. You need not tire yourself indulging me.”

“Hush,” Leonard said, gently smoothing over the Vulcan’s sides, until Spock exhaled sharply. 

“Pain?” Leonard asked, yanking his hands away, eyes widening. 

“Negative,” Spock insisted, tugging his robe back over himself. 

“Then what?” Leonard prodded, alarm rising. 

Spock shrank beneath the dark fabric. “This morning, you expressed concern that Johanna’s attention to my dietary predilections might lead to the undue accumulation of adipose tissue about my person.“

Leonard blinked, brow furrowing. “You think you’re fat?” he asked incredulously. 

“Perhaps not at present,” he admitted, slowly pulling the nearby plaid comforter surreptitiously towards himself. 

“However, since you first raised that possibility during the Giving of Gratitude holiday 29 days ago I have been using my tricorder to track any clinical manifestations of that prospect. During that timeframe my circumference has increased by approximately 3.4 centimeters.”

“I was teasing you,” Leonard sputtered. “You know that.” 

“Nevertheless,” Spock continued, retreating under the comforter, “your jocularity may have some basis in fact. As this expansion in girth has become a documented trend over the past 4.2 weeks, I have come to consider that my human genetic component might be asserting itself in such fashion.” 

“Or,” Leonard muttered, exhaling impatiently and shaking his head, “you might consider the possibility that you have an inexplicably adoring step-daughter who spoils you rotten.” 

“I have researched the matter thoroughly,” Spock sniffed. “According to the medical works I consulted, the accumulation of excess adipose tissue about the human oblique and abdominis musculature has been extensively recorded since the middle of the 20th century. While I found no traditional Latin nomenclature designating the condition, the accompanying diagrams did make cryptic reference to the occurrence of ‘affection adhesions.” 

McCoy frowned, imagining what medical images Spock might have discovered.

“You mean love handles?” Leonard sputtered finally.

“That was one of the colloquial terms suggested by the medical records computer,” Spock admitted. “It seemed a needlessly emotive and somewhat less scientific translation than-“

“Affection adhesions?” Leonard snorted. 

“I am merely conveying my findings,” Spock insisted. “While they specified no quantitative criteria for the diagnosis of such adhesions, I surmised that a 3.4 increase in abdominal girth over approximately thirty days would at least prove concerning.”

“Diagnostic criteria,” Leonard muttered, shaking his head, “for love handles?”

“Vulcans do not typically store hydrocarbon chains in such fashion,” Spock insisted, his eyes widening as Leonard moved abruptly towards him.

Pulling back the red plaid comforter unceremoniously, Leonard peered closely at Spock’s midsection. “3.4 centimeters, huh?” he asked, frowning as he shifted the robe aside and pressed his fingers lightly into the flesh below the Vulcan’s ribs. “How’d I miss that?” he asked sarcastically. 

Spock gasped softly, a shiver of pleasure rippling through him.

“It has been gradual,” Spock noted, squirming haplessly as Leonard’s warm hands lingered. “Perhaps I should have called the malady to your attention sooner and sought your expertise before its symptoms became so pronounced,” he added, glancing tentatively at Leonard’s fingers. 

“Malady?” Leonard snorted, removing his hands and dropping down beside his bond mate. “Spock, most people gain a kilo or so around this time of year.”

“Vulcans most certainly do not,” Spock retorted primly. “I can only conclude that my hybrid constitution has left me uniquely subject to this affliction.” 

“Fine,” Leonard grumbled, removing his own robe and tugging a section of the comforter towards himself. “You want a medical prescription? We’ll take a nice long walk every afternoon, burn off all those fancy hobgoblin pastries Jo makes for you.” 

“You believe that such a proposed treatment will suffice?” Spock asked, tilting his head and hesitantly surveying his mid-section as he seriously considered the proposal. 

“For a spoiled Vulcan with a sweet tooth, yeah, I think that’ll do,” he grumbled, pulling the comforter more fully in his direction and burrowing beneath it. “And Jo still likes me better,” Leonard added. 

“Degree of liking is not an intensively measurable state,” Spock noted, settling down beside him. “However, I would remind you that I am the one in possession of a #1 Sa’mekh skiing Moose mug.”

“She made that for you when she was eleven,” Leonard countered. “I’d like to think her judgment has improved since then.” 

“She makes me Kre’van,” Spock reminded him, a hint of smugness seeping into his voice as he stretched beneath the comforter. “The recipe is quite complicated.”

“And what did that get you?” Leonard asked, turning towards him and sinking his fingers into Spock’s mid-section again. “A chronic case of affection adhesions.”

“I believe you have proposed a remedy for the affliction,” Spock murmured, sighing deeply. 

“You sure you want to be cured?” Leonard asked, his warm hands continuing their skilled ministrations as Spock squirmed helplessly, a blissful semi-smile spreading across his face. “You seem to like this.”

Spock glanced up warily, suddenly stilling. “The affliction does not diminish your prior regard for my physique?” 

Leonard frowned at him, hands stilling gently beneath his bond mate’s ribs. “You think I’d even notice three centimeters?” 

“This morning,” Spock replied hesitantly, “you seemed quite adamant about my person’s presumably regrettable doughy consistency.“ 

“Spock,” Leonard interrupted, dropping down on his side. “We were teasing you.”

“I believed as much, but wished to be certain,” Spock admitted, exhaling quietly as Leonard reached for him.

“Did you not hear the part where I said I enjoyed the view?” Leonard asked, his eyes following his hands as they traced the length of Spock’s torso. 

A sheepish half-smile flitted across Spock’s face as he savored his bond mate’s touch. 

“You know, I still have those two copies of that Bodacious Buns calendar,” Leonard added, lying back down beside the Vulcan. 

Spock’s brows furrowed. 

“And I’d have kept them even if you were twice as wide as you are now,” he added, staring up at the expansive ceiling as star light streamed in through the sky lights. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” 

Spock pondered thoughtfully. “That your regard for me is independent of my circumference?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it that romantically,” Leonard growled, rolling his eyes, “but, yeah.”

“Then I shall follow your prescription,” Spock agreed, settling back down beside him. 

Spock studied the doctor’s expression, waiting for the residual echoes of his bond mate’s sudden and inexplicable frustration to subside. Several moments later, he traced a long finger over Leonard’s cheek as the doctor shifted closer to him. 

“You are… satisfied?” Spock asked quietly. “Your previous ministrations, while deeply appreciated, were decidedly one-sided.”

Leonard smiled lazily, stretching out his right hand and curling two fingers around Spock’s. “I’m good. Consider the solstice celebrated.”

Spock nodded, placing a human kiss on Leonard’s forehead as he pressed closer to his bond mate.

“Hey,” Leonard murmured, arms sliding around Spock. “I almost forgot. You got a package marked “live sample” this afternoon. Will that be okay in the spare bedroom overnight?” 

“Affirmative,” Spock said, humming softly as Leonard’s warm hands resumed their familiar wanderings. 

“Gonna tell me what it is?” Leonard asked eagerly. 

Spock considered the request. Clandestine behaviors surrounding the acquisition of goods were common among humans during the seasonal Solstice. Still, subterfuge with one’s bond mate was unthinkable except under the most dire circumstances. 

“It is a requirement for restitution offered under Vulcan penal code 2.56, section 4.32b, statue 12c.,” he said finally, opting for brevity given Leonard’s fatigued state.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Leonard mumbled. “I’ll wheedle it out of Jo at lunch tomorrow.” 

“Wheedling is undignified,” Spock replied, tugging Leonard closer. 

“So is mooning a Christmas tree,” Leonard retorted sleepily.

“Doctor,” Spock murmured, “your astronomical inaccuracy concerning the nature of lunar phenomena is unbecoming a man of science.“

“You know what I mean,” Leonard muttered, his hands sliding over the moons in question. 

“Indeed,” Spock agreed, as another ripple of pleasure echoed across their bond. 

“So you gonna tell me?” Leonard asked, voice still eager even as he began to doze. 

It is a seasonal succulent,” Spock announced finally. 

“A cactus?” Leonard asked, yawning deeply. “What do you need a cactus here for?” 

One eyebrow rose elegantly, Spock’s arms closing possessively around his bond mate as Leonard slipped easily into sleep. 

The solstice holidays, like his human family members, could prove unpredictable, and proper Vulcans were prepared for all eventualities: Johanna might have forgiven the shocking and shameful spectacle that the public occurrence of his regrettably nude personage had created. 

Still, he saw no harm in having an emergency compensatory seasonal succulent available, should it become necessary to offer one.


End file.
